A Cold Hearted Interlude
by LonePhantom756
Summary: The events of Sly 2, as seen through the eyes of a certain mechinical bird that everyone thought to be dead...in Chapter Six, Clockwerk discovers the full extent of Arpeggio's ambition, and Neyla's cunning ways surface.
1. Chapter 1: Inferno

**Author's Note:** the Sly Cooper series, the events concerned, and the characters are all copyright of Sony Computer Entertainment America Inc., Sucker Punch Productions 2006, and any other groups/people that deserve the credit. This is a non-profit work of fanfiction.

This story is told from the perspective of Clockwerk following the events of Sly Cooper and the Thievious Racconus, as the evil mechanical owl quietly watches the events of Sly 2 and beyond—although most of his body was accounted for in those games, his brain, and thus the fiendish intellect and driving force that guided that relentless mechanical body, wasn't really accounted for. What follows is my take on what might have taken place—something that fills in a possible plot hole or two from Sly 2, and how Clockwerk might have had a hand in the events of that game.

The title "A Cold-Hearted Interlude" refers to several things—to Clockwerk's stage in the original _Sly Cooper and the Thievious Racconus_, "The Cold Heart of Hate;" to what might have happened during the events of Sly 2 and onward, and to the fact that this is a separate fic from "Sly Cooper: On Equal Ground." In a way, this can be seen as an interlude between the latest chapter of that fic and the next one.

Anyway, enough introduction for now…let's move on with the show! For those of you who've read my previous works; for those of you who're reading my fanfics for the first time, and for those who love to hate Clockwerk as the most fiendish master villain of the Sly Cooper series…have fun reading this!

**Sly Cooper: A Cold-Hearted Interlude**

**A fanfiction by LonePhantom

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**

**Chapter One: Inferno**

My name is Clockwerk.

I am immortal.

I have awakened from unconsciousness.

And I am burning.

I am surrounded by liquid fire. Boiling, scorching lava that all but envelops the battered husk that is all that remains of my head, seeping through cracks and sears the interior like the infernal flames of Hell itself, slowly pouring in through those open wounds and burning me from within as I float precariously on in that vast pool of molten rock, somehow suspended enough to not sink into its fiery depths completely. By freak coincidence, one of my eyes still works, and I can watch as the rest of my body, floating nearby like a half-sunken shipwreck, is slowly incinerated by the lava that chews away at its ravaged form. The hellfire glow of the magma tints my vision with fiery red-orange and abysmal smoke—a preview, perhaps, of what lies in wait for me should my immortal life finally draw to a close.

And yet, despite all of this, there is no pain.

How can there be? I am, after all, a being of metal and circuitry; a robotic owl with a living brain, the one last piece of me that is still organic after these untold millennia. Everything else—talons, wings, eyes, beak, and the rest of my body—is composed of metal and wires, not the flesh and bone that I was originally born with.

Even my internal organs—my heart, lungs, stomach, and the like—are artificial, nothing more than mechanical constructs that bear a resemblance to their organic counterparts, but are modified to serve the purposes of a mechanical shell. My "heart" is really a pump that circulates machine oil throughout my body, and serves as a conductor for electrical energy. My "lungs" are more for aesthetic effect, yet they double as a means of regulating coolant to prevent myself from overheating. My "stomach" is, in fact, a sort of hybrid backup power core, not only providing power but capable of breaking down foreign matter into fuel.

Now, along with the rest of me, these "organs" burn in this sea of molten fire that is the Krack-Karov Volcano's crater. Even so, there is no pain—I feel nothing of the liquid inferno. That isn't to say that sensations are entirely beyond me—indeed, I built sensors into my frame which are capable of recognizing physical sensations such as pain if I so desired to feel them—to be unaware of such feelings, after all, could be more disadvantageous than not, both in combat and when trying to discern things through touch.

And, perhaps…just perhaps…the part of me that remembers what it was to be flesh and blood still yearns for some semblance of feeling…some means of acknowledging the fact that I _am_ a living being, and not simply some advanced machine that _thinks_ it was once a real person.

But those sensory circuits—along with the rest of the delicate inner workings that my tough outer shell was meant to protect—are destroyed now, blasted and smashed by the blows of my enemies and melted into so much useless slag by the lava that burns away at me even now, as if trying to consume me in its infernal grasp.

While my physical body is all but destroyed, however, I am still capable of thought—always cautious, I used a rare, ultra-refined version of the metal that composed my main body to construct a separate housing for my brain—a "jar" of sorts, encapsulating my brain in an extremely resistant form of Plexiglas that contains a gelatinous blue-green fluid, preserving my brain and constantly healing any illness or injury. The rest of the brain case is equally resistant, possessing a compact-but-complex series of systems that makes my brain case self-sufficient and far more impervious to harm than the rest of my body.

While the lava churns steadily against my brain case, baking it with the infernal heat that only a live volcano can provide, it is ultimately futile. The rest of my body may be broken, but the part of me that _truly_ matters, that makes me _more_ than a lifeless machine, remains unharmed in the end. The part of me that is capable of sentient thought. The part that _is_ me.

The part that is capable of hatred.

And I have much reason to hate now.

For I remember, all too well, how my current state came to be.

Damn that Cooper raccoon; him, that pitiful "gang" of his, _and_ that meddling vixen from Interpol! The boy was the weakest of his line that I have yet done battle with…intellect, experience, strength, and skill—in all of these, I was _clearly_ his superior! Victory should have been mine—the Cooper line extinguished at long last, their thieving reputation finally eclipsed by my own. And yet, despite the overwhelming odds in my favor, my ardent desire goes unquenched—somehow, this _whelp_, Sly Cooper, has defeated me! That realization only serves to stoke the fires of my hatred for him, and all that are close to him—how _dare_ they mock me with their sham victory!

And yet…I cannot help but feel something else along with my eternal hatred for the Cooper lineage—a profound sense of _irony_. All of this, you see—Sly Cooper's defeat of the gang that I founded, his rising star as a master thief, and even his triumph over me—all of it might have been avoided ten years ago.I could have killed Sly Cooper back then, right alongside his parents, when I directed the attack on his parent's home and stole their precious _Thievious Racconus_ a decade earlier.

And yet, I did not—the boy survived that bloody night, albeit as an orphan who was now alone in the world.

It was not ignorance of Sly Cooper's existence that saved his life that day—having relentlessly hunted the Cooper clan over the millennia, I made it a habit to know everything I could about each of them…and the fact that the latest of their line had married and had a son was no exception, despite his attempts to vanish by changing his official name. Nor was it a particular sense of mercy on my part that stayed my talons that night—indeed, when I decided to let the young Cooper live, the fate I had in mind for him was much more cruel.

I wanted to see the Cooper line humbled and broken—their reputation as master thieves shattered, the spirit of their last surviving member crushed, and my superiority to them proved beyond the shadow of a doubt. For this, I decided that the young Sly Cooper should live. There was no doubt in my mind that despite the loss of his parents and the _Thievious Racconus_, he would nevertheless try to follow in his father's footsteps; that he would take up the mantle of a thief and, eventually, seek out me and the rest of the Fiendish Five—not only for what he undoubtedly saw as his birthright, but also to avenge his family.

I was equally confident that he would fail miserably—that without that precious _book_, the last surviving member of the Cooper lineage would have no chance of attaining the kind of level as a master thief that his ancestors before him had achieved, let alone avenge his parents' deaths at my talons. In giving him this chance to fail in such spectacular fashion, I sought to prove to the world, once and for all, that the once-proud Cooper clan was _nothing_…and thus, their reputation would be forever eclipsed, and the title of the greatest master thief would belong to me, Clockwerk.

But it seems that I have sorely underestimated the raccoon's resourcefulness.

I maintained surveillance of the Cooper line's last living heir, focusing the covert resources at my disposal on keeping track of the young would-be thief's life and progress. Thus, by the time he was eighteen, and with his two partners began his quest to retrieve the _Thievious Racoonus_, I had a grasp of what Sly Cooper was capable of—while he had shown a natural apt for the art that I hadn't expected, I was nonetheless confident that he would ultimately fail.

When he and his little "gang" tracked down and defeated my Chief Machinist, Sir Raleigh, I initially gave little concern to the matter—I had expected that Sly might be good enough to beat _one_ of the Fiendish Five. When he then went on to defeat Muggshot and Mz. Ruby, however, I began to pay closer attention. While Raleigh had allowed himself to become somewhat complacent in his seabound hideout, my Enforcer and Chief Mystic had maintained a greater amount of security in their respective operations—for Sly Cooper to overcome them suggested that the infernal raccoon was developing the techniques he stole back from my comrades with greater speed and ease than I had expected.

By the time that word of the Panda King's defeat reached my lair in Russia, I knew that it was only a matter of time before Sly Cooper came after me, and that there was actually a chance that he could pose a _threat_ to my being. Nevertheless, as my security cameras detected the approach of his team's van, I _welcomed_ his arrival—how better to prove that I was superior to the Cooper clan than to dispatch their last living descendant and his pitiful "gang" _personally?_

In the years following my theft of the Thievious Raccoonus, I had returned to the lair I had built back in Russia—the very lair that now burns around me—and had devoted myself to converting it into a death-trap for any who would be foolish enough to intrude. A minefield on the path to my fortress, an armada of Robo-Falcons of my own design, a series of experimental bio-weapons that fused durable CPU units within slug-like bodies of lava, and even the Death Ray that I had been developing for global extortion and chaos…looking back on it now, on some subconscious level, I had prepared this fortress as the stage for the final act between me and the Cooper line—the ultimate in security systems, meant to prove that in the end, the last living descendant of my sworn enemies didn't have what it takes to be a true master thief.

Here, I pause—if I still had my talons, I would be clenching them in frustration right now. All of that preparation…for absolutely _nothing!_ Sly Cooper and his pitiful little "gang" would not be stopped. Regardless of the obstacles in their path, they kept on coming. They penetrated my defenses. They overcame my traps. And ultimately, they brought the Death Ray tower—my crowning achievement of this era, both a weapon and the nerve center of my fortress—crashing down around me.

But they were not alone in doing so. There was that vixen from Interpol—Inspector Fox, I believe she is called. Even _before_ this, she had been a thorn in my side, snooping around the operations of the other members of the Fiendish Five in her pursuit of Sly Cooper, and ultimately bringing them in when she was unable to capture the raccoon. Then, when she became a more direct problem by coming after _me_, I captured her. Given that my information suggested that, against all logic, Sly Cooper might have a certain _attraction_ to her, I decided that she might provide useful bait to lure the raccoon to his doom. Sure enough, the fool walked right into my trap, and he and the vixen would both have died there, were it not for the intervention of that hacker friend of his.

And then he and that meddling vixen came after me. No matter what I did, they would not fall, and they would not stop. My Death Ray tower, both my inner sanctum and my mightiest weapon, the nerve center for the criminal empire I intended to create—nothing more than slag now, consumed as it sank into the lava. Finally, I myself flew out to engage Sly Cooper personally—even if all else had failed, I should have been able to _crush_ that pitiful raccoon, even _with_ that missile-equipped jet pack of his. But in the end, that meddling vixen and her infernal lightning gun made all the difference. In more ways than one, she is just as responsible for my fall as Sly Cooper

And so, inconceivable as it is, my plan has backfired. Once again, the Coopers have found a way to defeat me, despite the odds. Their last living descendant has reclaimed his family's greatest treasure, and has left me and my plans in ruin. However, the ignorant fool has made one fatal mistake—he thinks that I am dead.

And I am not.

Despite the searing heat of this volcano, my mind is clear. I may have fallen today, but my hatred sustains me. Even if this body of steel and circuitry is destroyed, my brain—my true _self_—lives on. I will remember Sly Cooper's face, and those of the people close to him. That turtle who hacked into my systems. That hippopotamus whose daredevil driving got them into my fortress. And that meddling vixen, Inspector Fox, as well. Yes…her and Sly Cooper above all others. Someday, they will pay _dearly_ for—

Wait. Though the audio filter in my head is destroyed, the one on my brain case works well enough—I hear something. Voices? The sound of engines and machinery? With what few systems that have not yet been incinerated, I guide the camera lens of my one good eye about, searching for the source of these things. At first, I see nothing but the jagged ridges of the crater through the smoke and ash.

But now I can make out more—helicopters circling overhead. Radio chatter. Blurry figures at the edges of my vision operating machines that I cannot make out from this angle. A few all-terrain vehicles parked at the crater's edge. Though it is difficult to do so, I succeed in zooming in on one of these vehicles. And now I see it—the trademark star/shield emblem of Interpol emblazoned on the truck's side.

So. The vixen has called in the cavalry.

What's this? Something has attached to me from above—a _magnet_. I am rising now, lifted away from the infernal lake that has scorched me so with the continuous whirr of a crane ringing in my audio sensors. Nearby, I see the same thing happening with the rest of my body—from my new position, I see now that those machines I noticed earlier are cranes, operated by people in hazard suits as they lift the scattered remnants of my decimated frame away from the lava. Others surround the perimeter, armed with imposing assault rifles and keeping a constant watch for anything hostile. Both the workers and the guards all wear the star of Interpol on their uniforms, confirming my earlier suspicions. This is the clean-up crew, obviously retrieving what's left of my lair—and of _myself_—for evidence.

Now the magnet is being turned—I'm at the top of the crater now, facing two individuals who are standing apart from the hustle and bustle of their fellow officers, both looking at me as they talk to each other. One of them I do not recognize—a short, gruff-looking brown badger of significant age with a futuristic pistol not unlike Inspector Fox's tucked into a shoulder holster, the badge on his dress shirt suggesting that he is an Interpol chief. I _do_ recognize the other, though—it's that meddling vixen, herself!

The badger points at me with the stub of a cigar in one hand, ruffling his bushy gray mustache with the other. "So, this was Clockwerk, eh Carmelita?" A pause. "Or what's left of him, anyway?"

The vixen nods. "That's right, Chief Barkley—from what I was able to dig up before he caught me, he was planning to use that Death Ray of his as part of some plan to blackmail the nations of the world into paying him off to prevent any destruction to their countries...either that, or just start blasting away, causing all kinds of chaos, and then stealing important treasures and large sums of cash in the confusion."

The one called Chief Barkley growls at this. "That lunatic," he curses. "It's good thing that he was stopped before he had a chance to carry through with that crazy scheme of his." Then he looks at Carmelita, the somewhat stern expression that appears on his face matching the tone in his voice. "It's a shame you couldn't catch Sly Cooper while you were at it, though."

Inspector Fox seems flustered—it's hard to tell, what with my one remaining eye being half-disconnected and damaged, but she seems to be _blushing_. "I just got careless, sir," she says quickly. "I won't let him pull a fast one on me again—next time, I'm gonna _nab_ that Ringtail!"

Unbelievable. _I_ have been reduced to scrap and unwittingly _arrested_, yet that Cooper _whelp_ has escaped!

Unaware of my silent anger at this indignity, the badger shrugs dismissively. "Oh, well," he says as he gestures to me again with his cigar. "Compared to catching this guy, nabbing that Cooper kid can wait—from what our police files suggest, this guy's been committing crimes since at _least_ before World War II! Besides, with him and the rest of his gang out of commission, we can finally close the book on the case of the Fiendish Five." Then he smiles a little, a tone of approval breaking through his gruff attitude as he pats Inspector Fox on the elbow. "All in all, you did good, kid. Congratulations."

The vixen salutes, obviously taking this remark with pride. "Thank you, sir! And I assure you, Clockwerk was just the beginning—next time, Sly Cooper's ring-tailed _extremo _is mine!"

At that moment, an urgent beeping comes from something attached to the badger's belt and he looks down at it, grimacing in irritation. "Hold on a sec, I'd better take this call—that'll be the Russian authorities wanting to know when we'll be leaving." As he starts to walk away, he looks over his shoulder to Inspector Fox. "I'll expect your report on this whole Fiendish Five affair on my desk next Friday, then. See you back at H.Q." With those words, he walks off, pulling out a cell-phone as he does so.

Now it is just me and this Interpol vixen, who is still saluting her chief as he walks away. Presently, she turns to face me, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the sight of my battered head. Undoubtedly she is recalling how easily I trapped her before, finish this

"You were just the warm-up round," she says in a voice that is quiet, but hard as iron with determination. "Sly Cooper's my _real_ challenge." With those words, she turns on her heel and begins to walk away.

I seethe quietly as I watch her leave. How _dare_ this meddling vixen consider _me_ less of a master thief than that Cooper whelp! I should activate the emergency systems on my brain case, and show that Interpol lapdog that I am nowhere as immobile, inactive, or inadequate as she thinks—I should make her _pay_ for her presumptions and interference.

But…no. There are too many officers around here. While I am confident in the durability of my brain case, there _is_ the vixen's Shock Pistol to consider—it _was_, after all, capable of disabling my protective field and leaving me vulnerable to more conventional weaponry. Even if I can kill the vixen before she brings it to bear, her chief also possesses such a firearm…and it is unlikely that I will reach him before he can get a shot off. My brain case is highly resistant, but can it resist the effects of a powerful electric discharge that has already proven itself capable of disabling my defenses…especially after it's already been exposed to the exceedingly hot lava of a volcanic crater?

Is it worth risking my immortal existence, my chance for revenge, to find out?

No. It isn't. And besides…it may actually prove more _beneficial_ to lay low for now.

Let these fools think I am dead, nothing more than a collection of scattered spare parts and a brain in a jar whose life-support functions were destroyed with the rest of its body. When the time is right, I will show them just how wrong they are. I have cheated death in all of its guises over the centuries, while my enemies have often thought I finally perished…only to regret it when I came back to haunt them months, years, or even _decades_, later. This time will prove no different.

Sleep well for now, Sly Cooper—revel in your victory, in your retrieval of your family's heirloom. Go ahead and think that you have finished the arch-nemesis of your family once and for all.

In time, I _will_ have my vengeance…

**To Be Continued…**

There you have it—the first chapter, as seen from the eyes of the evil immortal owl himself! Feel free to read and review as you see fit; I always appreciate the input of my readers.

Oh, and before I forget, here's a translation for Carmelita's use of Spanish:

_Extremo: butt._

Well, that's about it for now. Until my next submission to it in this fic, or in On Equal Ground—_ciao!_


	2. Chapter 2: Theft of a Thief

Author's Note: the Sly Cooper series, the events concerned, and the characters are all copyright of Sony Computer Entertainment America Inc., Sucker Punch Productions 2006, and any other groups/people that deserve the credit. This is a non-profit work of fanfiction.

Bet you thought I'd forgotten about this one, didn't ya? Well, think again! Here comes the second chapter—we find out the steps that Interpol might've taken to find out if Clockwerk still posed a sentient threat, and how the old bird might have fooled them into thinking he was dead. From there, we will witness, from Clockwerk's eyes, the night that the Klaww Gang broke into that museum in Cairo and stole his remains, thus setting the stage for Sly 2.

For once, I don't have a lot of foreword to add—let's cut to the chase, shall we? For those who were wondering what happened to this fic, enjoy the latest chapter!

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**Chapter Two: Theft of a Thief**

Two years have passed since I was lifted in pieces from the Krack-Karov Volcano's crater, unwittingly taken into custody, and hauled off to Interpol for extensive research and examination by the various technicians and criminologists that the international peacekeeping organization has in its employ. Two years…compared to the countless centuries—nay, millennia—that I have spent alive in my relentless bid for vengeance against the Cooper line, the passage of two years is almost nothing at all.

And yet, I have awakened only just recently. Strange, is it not?

However, it is not due to my being rendered unconscious after the battle with Sly Cooper. No…even two years ago, as my brain case was loaded into a helicopter with the rest of what remained of my body, and flown away from the ruins of my old fortress, I was well awake and scheming; plotting my revenge against those who had reduced me to this pitiful state, and subjected me to the ultimate indignity for a master thief—being thwarted by a rival thief at the zenith of my plan, and subsequently placed under arrest. The time that those lapdogs of the law spent flying my remains to Interpol's headquarters, _I_ spent pondering various means of escape, of rebuilding, of wreaking retribution on that ring-tailed whelp and all those close to him.

But while I came up with several reasonably decent plans, none of them had the chance to be implemented, let alone come to fruition. Once again, the flighty mistress known to most as fortune intervened, and decidedly _not_ in my favor.

Every part of me had been subjected to a considerable series of examinations, each one carefully logged and recorded—while I did not bear witness to this, the unsuspecting Interpol lapdogs who were guarding my brain case mentioned it in one of the idle conversations they shared out of boredom while guarding what they assumed to be a lifeless husk. Those fools thought it an unnecessary waste of time, but their superiors obviously knew better—they were insightful enough to recognize the threat that my remains posed, shattered and broken as they were, and how the unique design specs and alloy of my parts could have other applications, even in their current state.

However, thus lay the problem—with every part of my body being subjected to tests, my brain case was no exception. I learned of this when an elegantly-dressed black widow spider—the Contessa, I believe she was called—visited the place where I was being kept. From her conversation with the guards, I could tell that this woman was a far cry from the usual lapdogs of Interpol—quite the gifted mind, this one. As a prominent psychiatrist in Interpol's ranks, she had surmised that there was a chance that my brain might still be alive, even though I had taken great care to avoid showing any sign of life within my metal-and-plexiglas shell.

And so it was, on this Contessa's recommendation, that my brain case was scheduled to undergo a number of tests—electroencephalographs, magnetic resonance imaging, and the like. The purpose, of course, was to discover any mental activity that might be taking place—any sign that I might still be thinking within my artificial shell.

That could have been my undoing, then and there; my cover blown in the very midst of Interpol headquarters, with limited means of defending myself against the full-out attack that would surely come once the alarm was sounded—while I am confident in the nigh-indestructibility of my brain case, the risk still remained, slight as it was. Furthermore, even if I was not destroyed, I could be immobilized. I could be captured. And once those lapdogs of the law were aware of my presence among the living, I would surely have been kept under heavy lock and key, making escape that much more difficult.

But technology is not my only forte—I have not forged my path over the millennia with my scientific intellect alone. As my vendetta against the Cooper line has carried me from one era to the next, I have adapted my own array of thieving skills to keep up with the passage of time, as well as the new abilities that each successive generation of Cooper has acquired. Though the times may change, and the regions may vary, my knowledge of those skills remains. For example, in feudal Japan, when I confronted the ninja Ryoichi Cooper, I had developed and utilized a number of fearsome ninjitsu techniques to complement my formidable intellect… and, just as importantly, to rival my nemesis' mastery of the shadow arts; to prove that anything a Cooper could do, _I_ could do even _better_.

One such technique that I had created was known as Shinemuri, or "Death Sleep." Through focus of will, this art would allow me to enter a deep trance, so utter and complete as to simulate death itself. It was the art of Shinemuri that allowed me to fool Ryoichi, and more than one Cooper that succeeded him, into believing that I had perished after they saw my motionless body and grievous wounds; leaving me to rouse myself later and slip away into the darkness, plotting my revenge.

It was a gamble, of course—there was no guarantee that the technique would affect the myriad processes of my brain enough to fool the sensors and tests that would be applied to test my cognitive presence. More importantly, as I was more machine than flesh now, there was no certainty that Shinemuri would even _work_. And even if it did, there was a strong possibility that I would likely be unable to come out of the trance on my own—I would have to _wait_ for it to wear off. And when and where that would be, I had no way of knowing.

But I could not see another way out. Even the sub-conscious processes of my brain might be enough to give me away. The Shinemuri technique was my best chance at remaining undetected…perhaps my _only_ chance. Risks though there may be, I _had_ to at least try.

I _detest_ being so vulnerable.

As my brain case was being wheeled to the Contessa's crime lab for analysis, I shut down the external camera and auditory sensors, along with every system that I could afford to deactivate—I had to appear _completely_ inactive. My world went dark and silent. I could no longer register the information that was the closest I could feel to touch in my present state. The normal steady hum of my systems all but ceased, with only a few necessary systems running in silent mode and the artificial cerebrospinal fluid inside my brain case to sustain me. For all intents and purposes, I was dead to the world.

Thus detached, I invoked the art of Shinemuri. Through force of will, I emptied my mind of coherent thought, focusing my attention on the strange empty void that one sees through closed eyes. Through the power of self-suggestion, I devoted myself to letting go of consciousness, insisting to myself that I was sliding away into the deep, dark reaches of Shinemuri—that I was both dead and alive at once, perched securely on the narrow margin that separates life and death.

Though it had been a long time since I had used this art—certainly not since I had become more fully mechanical—some things never truly go away. As if in answer to my silent prayer for escape, I began to feel a languid torpor flow over my mind, a silent breeze that washed my conscious thoughts away. It was a feeling that I had not experienced since the Victorian Era, when I had used this ancient art to fool Thaddeus Winslow Cooper, but I recognized it all the same. I very nearly allowed myself an active surge of triumph, but I had no way of knowing if the Contessa's tests had begun. Instead, I contented myself with a vague mental smirk as I let myself go.

As the fog of the unknown began to seep into my consciousness, I vowed to myself that even if my ruse was discovered, this would _not_ be the last time I was aware of myself. No matter what, I _would_ be back.

And, one way or another, I _would_ be free…

* * *

…Which brings me to the here and now. I have had time to re-activate my sensory systems, and have taken stock of my surroundings. The various scattering of ancient relics in this musty room, along with half-finished display cases and unopened crates labeled in Egyptian, have revealed this place as a museum in Cairo. The presence of a calendar on one of the nearby walls has shown me that two years have passed since the events at the Krack-Karov Volcano. And once again, the loose tongues of my ignorant custodians has proven most informative—from the idle chatter between the three swine who often stand vigil in this room (their quasi-police attire gives them away as nothing more than cheap security guards), I have learned that following the tests by Interpol, it was ultimately decided that I should be shipped here, to join the other ancient marvels of the world on display. In fact, from what I've heard, it seems that my parts would have a whole section of the museum dedicated to their display, complete with what little information that the law has gathered on me over the years.

On some level, I'm rather pleased by the amount of significance they've attached to my remains. To be placed on display, to have the world know of the danger I posed…this fate is befitting of a criminal of my caliber, to say nothing of the sheer brilliance I've demonstrated in conquering my own mortality. It would be an insult to file me away in some evidence locker, where I would become lost to paperwork and bureaucracy.

However, I have no intention of remaining an exhibit in this place for the rest of eternity. Even as I turn my optic sensor upwards to view the exotic night sky of Egypt through the skylight above, I am already scheming…how best to take my leave of this place, I wonder? Shall I attempt to re-activate my body's shattered remains, and hope that the auto-repair systems are functional enough? No, no…the damage is too severe, and it's been left this way for too long. Hmm…of course…I'll wait for these porcine fools to go on their break, and then—

_Creeeeeeaak…_

What? The door just opened, but only partially. The security guards notice this as well, looking up from their inane small talk to look towards the door. There are some snorts of confusion, and one of the swine steps forward and tilts back his police hat with a curious expression on his face as he speaks. "Louie? That you? Didja find those doughnuts in the break-room yet?"

Fool. This "Louie" would have barged right through the door with the typical lapdog's gait, not pushed the door only slightly ajar. Either there was a stray breeze, a rat, or…

A metallic clatter. Three small objects, metallic canisters sent rolling through the gap into the room. The guards see them as well, recoiling in surprise and muttering amongst themselves. Slow-witted imbeciles, but they're beginning to realize what I've already—

_Ka-WHUMMMMPHH-HHSSSSSSSSsssssssssssss…!_

_Smoke bombs!_ Already, a thick grayish-black vapor is pouring from the three canisters, filling the room with a blinding, choking fog. These fools guarding me are already reeling back from the smoke, coughing, gasping, and even squealing like the pigs they are as they fumble with the billy clubs and small-caliber handguns secured in their belts. One of them even has the sense to scrabble at the handheld radio on his belt, undoubtedly to call for backup.

But these porcine fools are slow. Much too slow.

The door is flung open with a crash, and three figures come racing through the smoke, reduced to silhouettes by the obscuring fog. One of them, obviously reptilian from the large tail and the angular snout, makes his way alongside one of the guards and delivers a right hook that catches the hired cop squarely in the jaw. There is a flash of purple light that paints the smoke electric violet and a crackling buzz akin to a tazer—clearly, there was more to that punch than meets the eye—and the guard drops with a groan, his clothes singed from electrical burns.

At the same time, the largest of the three—a hulking behemoth of a figure armed with a cudgel—charges one of the panic-stricken swine head-on, with all the grace and subtlety of a runaway freight train. His intended prey makes no attempt to dodge, let alone retaliate—I imagine shock and terror have rooted that pitiful lapdog's feet to the floor and blanked his mind, so that he can only watch as the giant one closes the distance and brings his cudgel into play. In one powerful swipe, this behemoth sends both the guard and his night-stick flying, the pitiful squeal cut off abruptly as he hits the far wall with a resounding crash.

As that foolish swine drops to the floor in a senseless heap, the third of these unknown assailants—somewhere between his partners in height, and possessing a build that suggests a predatory feline—closes the distance with the last of the guards; the latter manages to get his pistol free, but the feline quickly knocks it out of his hand with a vicious swipe of his claws, then follows up with another slash that leaves the pig writhing on the ground and clutching his face in agony.

Rather expertly performed, I'll admit—these three disabled the guards in the course of _moments_. Certainly no garden-variety burglars, whoever they are.

Now there's another form approaching through the smoke—unlike the others, however, this one doesn't resemble any species of humanoid anthro I have seen in my centuries of life. Indeed, from the sounds of hissing steam, clattering gears, and the angular extensions from the cylindrical, cage-esque central mass, it's clear that this is some kind of machine—or rather, a vehicle. The smoke obscures this newcomer as completely as the others, but I can make out a shape perched in the central cage—some manner of bird…?

"Ah, excellent! The old bird himself! Let's hurry it up, chaps—we must be off with our prize while the people of Egypt are still within slumber's deep embrace, and our means of escape are still un-noticed! Chop chop, now!"

A bird of intellect, if his refined tone of voice and British accent are any indication…and there is little doubt that whoever these people are, _I_ am what they seek. Why, I wonder? Were it Sly Cooper and his pathetic gang, it would make sense…and it would actually be a fine opportunity to settle accounts. But these people, who I know nothing of…why do they seek me? What is their plan?

Hmm….perhaps I'll play the role of a lifeless shell for a while longer, and see what these people have in mind. I must say, I am rather intrigued…

**To Be Continued…

* * *

There you have it—chapter two, and the theft of the Clockwerk parts from the POV of Clockwerk himself!**

Did the purple flash used by Dimitri (I think it was fairly easy to deduce who each shadowt figure was) seem odd? That's because he was using the energy-blasting ring he wields against Sly in the second game (those who played it will know what I'm talking about), only at close range and on some kind of tazer setting. I thought it was a nice obscure reference.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, Clockwerk's "Shinemuri" technique _does_ make use of actual Japanese words—I looked it up in a dictionary I have:

_Shi—Death._

_Nemuri—Sleep._

I originally planned to add more to this chapter, but to keep it from too long, I decided to adapt the rest of it to work into the next chapter, which looks into the aftermath of the Klaww Gang's heist. Once again, we'll see things from Clockwerk's P.O.V., and in addition, we'll gain some insight into how the divvying up of the robots bird's parts went down.

Well, that's about it for now. Until my next submission to it in this fic, or in _On Equal Ground_—ciao!


	3. Chapter 3: The Klaww Gang

Author's Note: the Sly Cooper series, the events concerned, and the characters are all copyright of Sony Computer Entertainment America Inc., Sucker Punch Productions 2006, and any other groups/people that deserve the credit. This is a non-profit work of fanfiction.

Bet some of you had forgotten about this one, eh? I apologize for the long wait, and I hope the context of this chapter makes up for it. Read on, fellow fans—you're about to witness events that were never fully touched upon in the second game!

And….action!

* * *

**Chapter Three: The Klaww Gang**

The parrot circles me in his bizarre personal carriage, the clicking of gears and soft hissing of pneumatics combining into a quiet symphony of mechanics that rather suits their master as he observes me thoughtfully. A small wing rises from within the crimson cape that drapes his diminutive body, green feathers stroking along the elegantly-curled black mustache that adorns his beak while his other wing works the controls that drive his rather fanciful version of a wheelchair. A moment later, the bird stops his carriage in front of me and lets out a thoughtful hum, his aristocratic voice sounding rather loud in the spacious chamber we occupy.

"Ah, Clockwerk," he muses aloud, "I cannot begin to say what it an effort it was to determine what became of you following your unfortunate downfall at the hands of Sly Cooper…and surely, the tribulations my associates and I made to ensure your retrieval were equally exhausting, if not more so." Then he lets out a small chuckle of satisfaction, adjusting his monocle as he leans further on his perch to get a better look at me. "Ho-ho, but on the whole, I'd say it was rather worth it, no?"

I do not answer, of course—as far as the finely-dressed parrot knows, he is speaking to an inanimate brain in a jar of preservative fluids, set upon a circular conference table with the rest of its parts arranged about it in an almost artistic fashion. He is not so much expecting a reply as he is merely thinking aloud, satisfying his apparent desire for theatrics. For all his intellect, this bird has made the same mistake as everyone else…he thinks that I am no more.

Time has passed since the four who raided the museum escaped with my parts. Time enough for them to board a dirigible that has flown them to their apparent hideout, one of the most elaborate flying machines I have witnessed or built. Easily the size of a small town, this complex arrangement of propeller engines, walkways, blimp cylinders, and control rooms is as much a hideout as it is a means of transportation…and truly a work of criminal brilliance. And furthermore, enough time has passed for me to learn more about my unwitting hosts—through listening to their conversation en route to the flying fortress, I have learned that, together with a fifth member, they make up the organization known as the Klaww Gang.

The Klaww Gang…word of them reached my ears some time prior to Sly Cooper's bid to retrieve his family heirloom. An international syndicate with no particular center of operation, the group's members have gained Interpol's eye for a number of crimes, the most infamous of which being their extensive involvement in the harvest and distribution of illegal spices—a commodity which has gained popularity in the underworld, giving the Klaww Gang a significant presence in the criminal hierarchy. However, with their connections, it has been speculated that they have some greater agenda in addition to their spice monopoly and their members' personal schemes.

Perhaps now, I will learn that agenda. Surely, I can find a means to exploit the Klaww Gang's plans for my own gain.

Which brings me back to the parrot who continues to circle me. Arpeggio…that is his name. He is exactly as I thought him to be when I first caught sight of him in the museum—a bird of intellect who fancies himself a step above the common rabble. From the fanciful pennants and insignia that adorn this flying hideout, it would seem that this place is his work…and that he may have significant influence within the Klaww Gang. He may be diminutive of stature without his clockwork carriage, but he possesses a keen intellect—rather akin to myself, in that regard.

Arepeggio swings forward on his perch, reaching through the protective bars of his cage to stroke my Plexigas casing—and is that melancholy in his voice? "If only you were alive, dear boy," he murmurs. "By all accounts, you were quite the gifted mind. I would like to think that two birds of a feather such as you and I may have found much in common." He pauses and tilts his head back, a wing to his temple in Shakespearean lament. "But alas, from what the Contessa told me, you are no longer a living thing—merely a lifeless brain in a jar, a scientific curiosity and nothing more. Such a terrible waste…"

The _Contessa?_ The spider from Interpol? She is _part_ of all this? Was my subjection to her psychological scans part of the Klaww Gang's plan to steal my remains?? Remarkable…the Klaww Gang's connections run deeper than even _I_ could have predicted!

_**Click-bssssht**_. The sound of an intercom activating._ "Lord Arpeggio? The other members of the Klaww Gang have gathered—they wish to begin the exchange." _

At the mellow, almost musical voice that echoes through the room via the intercom, Arpeggio abandons his melodrama, swirling his cape about him as he works the controls of his bizarre carriage to turn towards the door at the far end of the dimly-lit room. "Smashing, Milo! Send them in, will you?" Then he wheels back to me, his hawkish gaze seeming to stare at something behind me. "Neyla, my dear, you'd best vanish."

A sigh. A feminine voice with a distinct Cockney accent. "Very well, Master…"

_What??_ Someone behind me, all this time? Curse my present condition, and its limited forms of sensory input! I would swivel my camera eye to behold this person, would it not give me away…and for now, I should remain undetected. Besides, I suspect I shall learn more of this unexpected presence yet.

There is a rustle of fabric as this 'Neyla' conceals herself somewhere nearby. Arpeggio himself turns to face the door just as it slides open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing five figures bathed in the light from outside. One of them is wearing the garb of a butler, a mouse in his teenage years with a strangely calm look on his face as he ushers the others into the room. One by one, they file into the room, taking up seats at the conference table…the other members of the Klaww Gang. Many of them I recognize from the heist back in Cairo, but now I know more about them—their chatter on the way here saw to that.

The one on the farthest left is a purple-skinned iguana with a dark goatee and dreadlocks, and a fashion sense that is questionable, at best. From my covert observation, I know him as Dimitri Losteau—comments from the others depict him as a talented forger, and his responses imply that English is not his first language…and heavily inspired by the absurd mannerisms of rap culture. Be that as it may, it seems that he is a very slippery individual, equally at ease whether in high society or shady back-alley deals. Behind his absurd ego lies a number of useful traits…it would be unwise to take him lightly, peculiar though he may be.

The one seated next to him is the tiger who fiercely clawed the guards back in the museum. He has identified himself as Rajan, and has clad himself in the trappings of a wealthy Indian sultan—his clothes and turban are made of fine silk, and a number of jeweled rings surmount his fingers. He has all the arrogance and poise of royalty, yet something about the paranoid gleam in his eyes suggests to me that he was not always thus—that he used to be a low-level thug long before he became a spice lord. It would seem that he seeks to hide his humble past, and become a self-made emperor…and that he would react mercilessly to those who would challenge his ambition.

Taking up my right is the very black widow who ordered my brain case to be examined—the Contessa herself. Though she wears the same web-patterned scarlet gown and elbow-length gloves, there is a new gleam to her glittering red eyes as she lowers herself into an eight-legged sitting position…a cold, amoral expression that reflects her true nature. Clearly, her role as a psychiatrist and prison warden for Interpol is nothing more than a cover; this black widow has seen past the pitiful limits of public law and has subverted them to her hypnotic will. She is a brilliant criminal in her own right, and I suspect that she has joined the Klaww Gang only because it helps her in furthering her own agenda.

The giant bison who sits next to her? Jean Bison, a hulking figure garbed in animal skins and carrying a mighty cudgel. His rustic mannerisms, wildly unkempt fur, and primitive attire all suggest that he is a product of another time…and indeed, from what I have overheard, it sounds as though he is just that—literally. Formerly, a settler during the Gold Rush, then a victim of being frozen alive in an avalanche. Presently, a Canadian shipping baron who hauls shipments of spice for the Klaww Gang—all to finance his personal war against "the Wild North." He is older than he appears, and his strength is formidable…however, the similarities between us end there. I have _adapted_ to meet the changes of time; this foolish oaf remains lost in the past.

And then, of course, there is Arpeggio—their unofficial leader. Connoisseur of exotic technologies and fine art. An inventor who takes his inspiration from the masters of the Italian Renaissance. And, of course, my unwitting host.

Presently, the five of them assemble at the table, and Arpeggio produces a small remote from within his cape. An overhead spotlight flares to life, bathing the table in a harsh glow—out of the corners of my camera lens' vision, I can make out the gleam that my scattered parts give off as the light hits them, and I can imagine the effect this has—my parts arranged around me, impressive even in their present state as the light reveals the detail and effort I put into making them...and my brain case at the apex of it all. A fitting centerpiece, I suppose.

"Good evening, my esteemed colleagues!" Arpeggio proclaims, sweeping out a wing towards me in a grand gesture. "Thanks to our combined efforts, Clockwerk's remains have been recovered! When he was still active, the old bird combined his keen intellect with a body that would never tire or age, becoming akin to a force of nature more than any mere mortal…" Here he pauses, likely for effect. "…And even now, destroyed as he is, Clockwerk's parts have any _number_ of application in the hands of those wise enough to see them!" Then he points to me with his wing, his monocle gleaming in the light as a note of anticipation enters his voice. "…And at long last, they have _arrived_ in such hands! After two years of collecting dust in the hands of the plebian constabulary, they may _finally_ be put to a use befitting of their full potential!"

The one called Jean Bison shifts around in his chair, giving a snort of disbelief as he scratches his head. "I still can't reckon th' notion that all o' this metal junk used ter be a livin' thing! Bein' able to replace yer body with metal an' machine parts…that's a new one on me!" Now he shrugs. "Ah, well…if these Clockwerk parts're half as potent as you say they are, mebbe I can find some kinda use fer 'em..." A pause, and the brute suddenly points towards me—or rather, _part_ of me—with a shaggy finger. "Them talons, for example…they look mighty sharp. I reckon I could make a darn good cutting tool to chop down trees with!"

The Contessa lets out a faintly audible sniff—I detect a hint of disdain in it—as she strokes her narrow chin in evident thought. "How remarkably straightforward, Bison…ah, well. To each his own. I, however, believe I can find a more…_sophisticated_ use for some of these parts." Now that red-gloved limb extends forward, towards the crystal-lensed optics that rest in front of my brain case. "The eyes, for example…given proper experimentation and testing, I suspect they could prove to be powerful hypnotic tools."

Now the iguana speaks, his mannerisms as outrageous as his fashion sense. "Hypno-trance beamers? Ay-yee, that be some _strong_ sauce! I'm rolling a gamble that those eyes could be the cake on my icing for le disco balls in my nightclub!" He stops for a moment—evidently, the cool, disapproving stare from his arachnid comrade can still even _his_ tongue. "Errr…but then again, I'm sure a man of vision such as me could go bounds and leaps with the _rest_ of this big clock-bird…"

The tiger slams his palm on the table decisively, his myriad rings gleaming in the light. "Take what you may, but I claim Clockwerk's wings! As those which bore the dread terror aloft and served as his heralds, they are symbols of great power—I can think of no better antique to display in my ancestral palace; they will be the ultimate sign of my nobility and power!"

Arpeggio raises a diminutive wing of his own, his voice carrying a note of protest as he turns to argue with his colleague. "Steady on, Rajan—you're not the only one who could make use of such fine flying instruments, you know!"

The debate continues, but I am no longer listening. So. This is the Klaww Gang's game. Having thought me dead, my brain reduced to a mere curiosity in a lifeless cybernetic jar, they see fit to divvy up my remains and utilize them for their own criminal endeavors…likely without a single thought to what _I_ might have thought of the prospect; my components reduced to nothing more than mere _tools_ in their personal schemes. Would they be so brazen in using my parts for their own ends if they knew I was alive, I wonder?

Perhaps I should find out. Perhaps now is the time to activate my emergency backup systems, and show this presumptuous lot who the Clockwerk Parts _really_ belong to! How amusing it will be, to see their looks of shock as I…!

…But then again…now that I think about it…perhaps it is for the best. After all, while my old body was certainly powerful, and nigh-indestructible, it had flaws that led to my undoing against Sly Cooper…more importantly, however, it was ultimately ill-suited for the subtlety and grace that is the hallmark of a _true_ master thief. Large, relatively cumbersome, loaded down with heavy artillery…a useful war machine, to be certain, but a rather poor tool for thievery.

To think that I was so obsessed with power when building my mechanical shell that I almost lost sight of my _true_ goal!

But no matter—I have learned from my mistakes in the past, and adapted myself—mentally _and_ physically—to compensate. This time will be no different.

Go ahead, Klaww Gang…continue to argue and negotiate with each other, trying to determine the best way to split up the remains of my old body. You will undoubtedly find an arrangement that satisfies all parties concerned—excluding myself, of course. But then, I find that I no longer care so much.

I'm already hard at work, devising the specs for what my _next_ body will be like…

* * *

At length, the members of the Klaww Gang reached a general consensus regarding the distribution of my old components. As with any heated debate, not everyone has had all of their desires fulfilled, but they reached a conclusion that was more or less satisfactory. It was interesting to watch as they debated, negotiated, made deals with each other in exchange for receiving certain coveted pieces…and, finally, divided my remains up amongst themselves.

Rajan got my wings as he fervently desired, along with the voltaic cardiac pump that served as my heart. The Contessa has my old eyes, and it seems that she intends to make full use of their hypnotic potential. Dimitri walked away with my tail feathers, of all things—strangely enough, he seemed rather _pleased_ with this (what could that reptile be planning?). Jean Bison, ironically, has the _most_ of my old parts—in addition to the talons he had his eyes on, he also received my cast-iron stomach and lungs! This left Arpeggio with what was left of my frame, including my half-ravaged head…and myself. Or, as the Klaww Gang refers to me, the "Clockwerk Brain." While Arpeggio expressed a certain reluctance to see so many of my parts slip away from him—the wings, in particular—he took it rather gracefully.

And so, it is now just him and I in this chamber. The parrot circles me once more in his elaborate carriage, eyeing me with a certain wistfulness to his bright blue eyes as he adjusts his monocle. Then he seems to square his small shoulders and straightens up, letting out a short whistle from his beak.

"You may come out now, Neyla—the others have left."

A rustle of fabric close nearby. Then, to my left, a second figure emerges into view—evidently, this one had been hiding under the table while the members of the Klaww Gang had been in their meeting. She is an Indian tigress with pale violet fur, apparently in her early twenties, with a lithe, athletic figure clad in a brief halter top and snug-fitting khaki shorts, along with a silken white sash, a scarlet hood with gold trim, and a ruby circlet that suggests a Hindi background. If I cared about such things, I suppose I would consider her rather attractive…and certainly a _stealthy_ individual, to have remained hidden under the circumstances.

Undoubtedly, this is the one Arpeggio refers to as "Neyla." And from their previous exchange, it would seem that she is his apprentice. Furthermore, it seems that Arpeggio does not _wish_ for his fellow Klaww Gang members to know of her existence. How very interesting.

Leaning against the table with a relaxed, nonchalant air, the tigress toys with a long whip coiled at her side, stroking her chin thoughtfully with her free paw as she looks over her shoulder to Arpeggio. "That went rather well, sir…although I can't help but think that you were a little _soft_ in your bargaining, letting the others have the rest of the Clockwerk parts so easily." A pause, and she flashes a knowing smirk. "Not that you're planning to let it _remain_ that way, of course."

Hmm?

Arpeggio turns on his perch to face his feline apprentice, wagging a wing in mock admonishment. "Now now, Neyla…you make it sound as though I have some form of _treachery_ in store for my colleagues! Why, I'd be deeply _insulted_ by your insinuation, were it not for the fact that…"

"…it's _exactly_ what you're planning, dear chum," Neyla finishes for him, still smirking as she rests her paws on her hips in a self-assured manner. At the same time, she shoots a glance towards me, and for a moment, something flashes through her emerald-hued eyes. Brief as it is, I recognize it well.

It is a glance of one who _covets_ something.

Oblivious to this, Arpeggio chortles merrily as he brings his steam-powered carriage around to face her. "I suppose so, my cheeky protégé. Let's go over the scheme one more time, shall we?"

Now the parrot and the tigress are talking, their demeanor now that of two conspirators in a scheme privy only to a select few—a conspiracy that uses the context of some significant event as a cover to hide its own objective. And as they talk, I am listening.

And what I hear intrigues me greatly…

_**To be continued…  
**_

* * *

Whew! Took me long enough, huh? Sorry for the long wait! Blame it on real life circumstances—work, gaming, hanging out with my pals, etc. Be that as it may, I'd rather not let this fic die out—keep the faith, dear readers! I've got more in store where this came from! And now, for a few author's notes…

-This scene was meant to showcase several things—the first of which being the meeting that took place when the Klaww Gang split up Clockwerk's remains, and how the divvying up went down. I thought it might be interesting if there had been some debate over who got what, hence Dimitri's initial interest in the Clockwerk Eyes and Arpeggio's protest when Rajan laid claim to the Clockwerk Wings (since Arpeggio wants to gain the ability to fly, those wings would have been pretty tempting, I think).

-Secondly, I wanted to point out that Clockwerk might not have always been the giant we saw from the first two games—the silhouette who was seen in the flashbacks from Sly 1 seemed to be much closer to a regular person's height than the form Clockwerk has in the first two games. Ergo, it seems logical to infer that the huge body he used to combat Sly may have been the pinnacle of his bid to convert himself entirely to a mechanical body...however, in his striving for top-of-the-line armor and weaponry, he may have sacrificed stealth and agility—not the wisest move for one who would be a master thief. By the end of the chapter, Clockwerk has come to understand this, and vows to keep his ultimate goal in mind when he builds his next body.

-Third, I wanted to capture the opinion that Clockwerk might have of the members of the Klaww Gang…Arpeggio and Neyla in particular, as they will come into play in later chapters. The opinion that Clockwerk holds for the two of them will, in its way, shape the outcome of this fic, which I intend to have a few twists and turns even though the events of Sly 2 have already been said and done. :)

Until then, dear readers, feel free to offer comments and criticism as you see fit. Till next time...


	4. Chapter 4: A Tale of Two Schemes

**Author's Note: the Sly Cooper series, the events concerned, and the characters are all copyright of Sony Computer Entertainment America Inc., Sucker Punch Productions 2007, and any other groups/people that deserve the credit. This is a non-profit work of fanfiction.**

We've seen Clockwerk being salvaged by Interpol from the remains of his volcanic lair. We've seen how he eluded detection by Interpol. We've watches as the Klaww Gang stole his parts and proceeded to divide him up. We've even been privy to his thoughts on it all. And now we're about to see his take on what he overheard from Neyla and Arpeggio's conversation.

Hold onto your hats!

* * *

**Chapter Four: A Tale of Two Schemes**

The Klaww Gang is nothing if not efficient. It's only been a matter of weeks since they stole my remains, and already their master plan is well underway. As with any such scheme, all of the members of the Klaww Gang are involved at some point…and, as if any good plan, there is more to it than meets the eye.

Even if the eye belongs to members of the Klaww Gang _itself_.

The plan—as the _whole_ Klaww Gang understands it—begins with the illegal spice they've monopolized; Rajan, the gang's self-made spice lord, is responsible for cultivated this rare herb and distributing it through black market channels. The spice is illegal for good reason—it has addictive properties when consumed, and extensive consumption can leave its users prone to wild fits of emotional outburst—often in the form of violent anger. Left unchecked, this spice could become the next designer drug, and fuel a new outbreak of criminal activity… hence its illegal status.

However, the spice has another, lesser-known side effect—it seems that after one has consumed enough of it, their agitated mental state makes them vulnerable to hypnosis. Thus does the Contessa enter the plan—her research of hypnotic techniques, combined with the work she's done for Interpol in "re-habilitating" captured criminals, has helped her discover a series of light-wave frequencies that can subliminally affect the minds of those under the influence of spice…allowing her to mold her "patients" in whatever way she wishes.

The Contessa has sent the details for these light patterns to Arpeggio, who has modified this flying fortress to give off those light-waves from high-powered spotlights mounted on its underbelly. To ensure that the spotlights are powerful enough to cast their light over a wide area, and that the hypnotic light pattern will have maximum effect, the scheming parrot has already made arrangements with Jean Bison, having him gather the rare frequency of energy given off by the Northern Lights for powering the hypnotic spotlights. Thus, in addition to shipping the Klaww Gang's spice to Dimitri and other distributors, the pioneer from a bygone era contributes even further.

The Klaww Gang's plan is to fly the fortress over Paris in a matter of months, by which time Dimitri will have had ample time to distribute Rajan's spice via the food in his nightclub. Thus, when Arpeggio activates the floodlights, he will be able to broadcast a series of potent subliminal messages into the spice-addled minds of the populace, turning them into the Klaww Gang's obedient slaves. Hence, they will conquer Paris…and from there, they may very well decide to expand their sphere of influence.

That is the Klaww Gang's plan, as its five members understand it. A stroke of criminal genius, indeed. But then, there is the Klaww Gang's plan…as only _one_ of its members understands it.

Arpeggio…and his secret apprentice, Neyla.

My unwitting host intends to see the plan through, as he and his cohorts have arranged it. However, there is another aspect of this scheme, one that revolves around the components of my old body. Where the other members of the Klaww Gang saw my parts as tools for their own trivial operations, Arpeggio sees something more—an answer to the endless frustration that his feeble body has caused him. While his mind is sharp, his poor physical development has denied him flight. Thus, the scheming parrot intends to re-assemble my old body once again, modifying it to allow for occupancy by another—such as _himself_. By integrating with my old frame, Arpeggio means to claim the natural birthright of most birds…and with it, a powerful body that he feels is his rightful image.

Of course, Arpeggio does not expect the others members of the Klaww Gang to simply hand over their share of my remains—he is not _that_ arrogant. At the same time, he wishes to avoid implication in reclaiming the parts, so that he may make full use of his associates before they fall.

And that is where Neyla, his protégé, comes in. Not to steal my components herself—not yet, though the tigress has expressed that it would be child's play for her. But Arpeggio has something _much_ more insidious in mind. It would appear that Neyla leads a double life—her other life takes place among Interpol, where she serves as one of their more recently-promoted agents. And in this role, Neyla is invaluable to Arpeggio's private scheme—she will arrange matters so she takes part in the Klaww Gang case, using her natural charisma and guile to gain the trust of her peers and covertly sabotage their efforts.

But it doesn't end there…Neyla's part is much greater. Through her, Arpeggio means to use _Sly Cooper_ _himself_ to gather my remains!

The raccoon will undoubtedly take part in all of this, no doubt motivated by some foolish desire to prevent my supposed "legacy" from being utilized. Arpeggio knows this, and has come up with a scheme to use Cooper's own idealism against him—Neyla will arrange a secret meeting between herself and him, pretending to realize the threat of my parts and offering an alliance of sorts between herself and the Cooper Gang…and from what little I have seen of her, Neyla does seem like she might be capable of winning Sly Cooper's trust.

From there, she will earn the whelp's confidence by covertly aiding him in stealing my components from the rest of the Klaww Gang…all the while without raising any suspicion from either them or Interpol. And then, once Arpeggio concludes that he no longer needs to use Sly Cooper, he will have Neyla turn on him, offering him to Interpol as a "successful arrest." With that accomplished, she will take a more direct role by going after my old parts, under the guise of pursuing whatever's left of the Klaww Gang by this point.

I am the greatest criminal mastermind this world has ever known—it is rare that I find another so close to my own level in regard to complex schemes. However, having listened as Arpeggio described his plan to his apprentice, I must acknowledge its brilliance…cunning, insidious, and deliciously ironic in the way that it will use Sly Cooper's own zeal to end my "legacy" to bring about the success of Arpeggio's ambition.

A masterstroke. I am rather impressed by Arpeggio's scheming mind, his penchant for treachery. With my old body at his command, he could go far…

…And then there's his apprentice, Neyla. While Arpeggio seems to be the mastermind behind it all, the tigress may merit my watchful eye, as well. Her mastery of deception in posing as a devoted agent of Interpol notwithstanding, she seems perfectly willing to exert herself as well, given how eager she seemed to go after my remains herself. And there was something in her eyes when she looked at me…that covetous glance which betrayed her own interest in my remains. Is she really as devoted a servant as she appears, I wonder?

I'll be watching as these two schemes—the Klaww Gang's, and Arpeggio's—play themselves out. In such fertile soil, surely I can find a way to plant the seeds of my own advent…

_**To Be Continued…**_

* * *

At long last! This fic returns from limbo! Granted, school makes posting new chapters difficult, along with the rest of life, but I don't mean to let this float forever in limbo, either. Rest assured, dear readers…I_will_ see this fic finished, no matter what. 

On a miscellaneous note, I originally intended for this chapter to take place in the timeline of the actual Sly 2, but when I realized how much detail I'd need to use to outline the Klaww Gang's scheme as well as Arpeggio's, I decided to make this a stand-alone scene. However, by the next chapter, we'll be entering the events of Sly 2 proper.

Till that time, comment and critique as you will. I'll be listening…


	5. Chapter 5: The Black Chateau

**Author's Note: the Sly Cooper series, the events concerned, and the characters are all copyright of Sony Computer Entertainment America Inc., Sucker Punch Productions 2007, and any other groups/people that deserve the credit. This is a non-profit work of fanfiction.**

Surprise, surprise! I'm not gone, after all…and I'm not done with this fic yet. Not by a long shot! It's taken some time, but I finally got my creative groove back…and I've pounded out another chapter! So sit tight, dear readers…once again we dive into the mind of madness!

The aftermath of the first part of Sly 2, with Clockwerk's sinister commentary. Let's see what he's got to say…

* * *

**Chapter Five: The Black Chateau**

"…Even with the arrest of Dimitri Lousteau, owner of the most popular nightclub in Paris, the authorities' work is far from over. Well-known in social circles as a talented artist and collector, Dimitri has long been suspected of holding an equally-influential position in the criminal underworld—both as a player in his own right, and as a member of the international spice ring known as the Klaww Gang. At roughly 3:00 AM, police finally found evidence to support these suspicions, and launched a sting operation to take Dimitri into custody." A pause. "However, someone beat them to it—the calling card of Sly Cooper, an international thief, was found on Dimitri's person when Interpol agents found him unconscious in the basement of his nightclub. Evidence suggests that…"

_Cooper_. I seethe quietly as I hear that name.

Oblivious to my ire, Arpeggio draws back from the workbench, wheeling his carriage away from his current project to face the television mounted nearby. A study in steampunk, its vaccum-tube screen presently shows a newscaster standing in front of a building in Paris, its grandiose structure currently surrounded by the police. The subtitles, combined with the antelope's monologue, fill in the details—this was, until recently, the nightclub of Dimitri, the iguana who left the Klaww Gang's bargaining table with my tail feathers in hand. As the newscaster prattles on, Arpeggio shakes his head and taps his temple with a diminutive wing, chortling heartily to himself.

"Printing plates, of all things!" Looking to me—to the supposedly inanimate brain in a jar, perched on his workbench like a macabre paperweight—the aristocratic parrot arches a brow. "You know, when Dimitri first mentioned the idea, I almost thought him mad! But in hindsight, it _was_ rather clever of him. After all, the plan certainly _worked_…" Pausing, Arpeggio chuckles again. "Until Sly Cooper came along, of course."

I know this already. After all, I was _there_ when Arpeggio converted my tail feathers into exotic counterfeiting tools. It was the first of many such modifications he's since made to my remains, as per the Klaww Gang's request. And I have been present for them _all_—I would have thought such a chance unlikely, but Arpeggio has continued to prove an unwitting ally.

The aristocratic mechanist has kept my brain-case close to his workshop at all times, setting me on his workbench so he might talk to me while he tinkers away. As far as I can tell, he still hasn't realized I'm still cognizant—to him, I'm nothing more than a souvenir of his heist; something to absorb his boasting in the absence of his underlings, the Klaww Gang, or Neyla. An egotistical habit, but it's proven rather useful to me—thanks to Arpeggio's apparent need for an audience, I've been able to watch closely as his plan has unfolded. And my vigil has not gone un-rewarded.

First of all, there's the matter of Sly Cooper. Arpeggio has made it a point of keeping him under surveillance…mostly through his apprentice, Neyla, who has already earned the raccoon's trust. How _satisfying,_ to see how easily the whelp was convinced by the tigress' silver tongue, her feminine wiles. Hah! Foolish youth!

And yet…the youth's skills have _improved_ in the two years that I spent asleep.

Gone is the scampering wretch who struggled to harness his family's secrets, even as he plunged forth recklessly to retrieve them. In his place stands a master of stealth and cunning, one quite capable of improvising under pressure. Further, his two friends have become far more active in their heists—the tortoise juggles his role as the group's strategist with that of a demolitions expert, while the hippo acts as their strongman…a role at which, surprisingly, he excels. With each successful step of their plan to steal back my feathers, the clearer it has become—the three of them are a force to be reckoned with. Though I am loathe to admit it, Sly Cooper has come further into his own than I had ever thought possible.

To think that the cowering, sniveling whelp from twelve years ago has grown into such a talented thief. To think that his allies would be halfway _useful_.

To think that I underestimated the Cooper bloodline yet _again_!

But no matter.

So long as Sly Cooper gleans his skills from that miserable _book_ of his, I will be ready for whatever techniques he might employ when our paths cross again. It has been the decline of the Cooper clan for years, now…surely, to rely further and further upon the ingenuity of their ancestors can only have _weakened_ each descendant's _personal_ thieving prowess. Surely, it is only _luck_, and my own overconfidence, that has continued to seclude my reputation in their shadow.

It _has_ to be. The alternative would mean…

No. Unthinkable.

I am _not_ inferior to the Cooper clan. Not in any way.

"Marvelously done, don't you think?"

Hmm? Ah, I see—Arpeggio's addressing me again, unaware that I'm capable of hearing him. He seems to be pointing at the television again…and the image has changed. It's now showing a familiar tigress shoving an equally familiar iguana towards the open doors of a police van. Neyla wears a satisfied smirk; Dimitri, a dejected expression with bruises—both faded and recent—as he is pushed into the van and trapped behind slammed doors. As the police van peels away with the distinctive wail of a French siren, Neyla turns to the camera, answering questions posed by the reporter. For all the world, she seems to be the model policewoman, from her upright posture to her righteous tone of voice.

If I didn't know better, I might have been fooled by her act, myself. But then, I have seen more of Neyla's true colors than anyone else—including Arpeggio.

Through the surveillance devices that the parrot has used to follow his protégé's exploits, I watched Neyla approach Dimitri—how she passed herself off as a crooked cop and seduced the flamboyant lizard, charming her way into his confidence and securing the key to his night-club. I also watched as she offered that very key to Sly Cooper, presenting herself as an officer with an open mind. And even juggling these two roles, Neyla played the part of the dedicated constable _flawlessly_; for all the animosity between them, Inspector Fox remains unaware of her new "partner's" _true_ allegiances. That blindness is shared by the rest of Interpol—_none_ of those foolish enforcers of the law realize that a cunning and dangerous criminal is right under their collective nose.

Arpeggio has seen all of this, as well. But I've seen things that he _hasn't_.

There was the covetous glance that Neyla shot towards me after the Klaww Gang had divided my remains. There was the raw _envy_ in her voice when she insisted that she could retrieve the parts herself, without manipulating Sly Cooper. And, of course, there is the treacherous streak that has enabled her to play her role, charming the Cooper whelp into letting her watch his back…even as she prepares the knife intended for his worthless heart. All of these things lead to one conclusion—though it is still too early to be certain of my hunch, I firmly suspect that Neyla is not content to remain a pawn in Arpeggio's game.

Arpeggio is a gifted inventor and criminal mastermind, with an intellect that comes very close to matching my own. However, his apprentice is intriguing in her _own_ way…she's naturally gifted in the art of deception, with athletic prowess on par with Sly Cooper's. What's more, she possesses a predator's guile—if Arpeggio is a refined intellectual who can devise clever schemes, then Neyla is one who can manipulate events around her to suit her own ends. Cunning, skillful, and treacherous… the tigress could easily rival the Cooper whelp as a master thief. And her envy of the raccoon's role in her master's plan…I understand it well. In a way, her frustration with Sly Cooper parallels my own.

It may be worth keeping an eye on her.

Her master switches off the television and turns back to the workbench, resuming the project he was working on prior to the report. Before me rests the skeletal framework of a mechanical wing; five meters in diameter, its metallic feather-tips barely touch my brain case. Given the wing's appearance, it's clear that it will be installed into the half-completed avian figure that presently hangs from the ceiling, held in place via a complex setup of rotating magnets on the blimp's interior hull. With a welding torch in one wing and metal stock in the other, Arpeggio sets to work in adding structure to the wing, humming a tune as he seals sheets of metal into place over the framework.

I recognize both the wing and the chassis rapidly enough. They're based on _my_ design, after all.

Arpeggio has left little to chance—not content to wait until he has all of my parts, the aristocratic mechanist has put my blueprints to good use. By poring over the schematics that were salvaged from the exhibit in Cairo, he has begun work on a rough copy of my old body…practice for when he reassembles the genuine article. I think he might even intend to make it _functional_, to some extent…no doubt to practice making the systems of my _real_ body work when he starts putting it together.

Whether it could house my brain case, however is up to debate—I doubt that Arpeggio means to follow my path _that_ closely. Even so…I may yet put that body to use, if only to secure what I'll need to create a more suitable replacement. Surely, I could find a way to harness its control systems, whatever form they might take.

And so Arpeggio continues to tinker, pausing now and then to record notes on a modified phonograph. I remain a silent observer, audience to his thoughts on his work. And all the while, the plan continues to unfold…Dimitri was merely the first of the Klaww Gang to fall. Sly Cooper will go after the others; an unwitting puppet dancing to Arpeggio's script—that is, until the parrot decides to cut the whelp's strings. His cunning protégé will see to that.

But this is only the beginning, both for Arpeggio's scheme and my own. I'll keep watching, for now…sooner or later, I'll find a way to turn his ambitions to my advantage.

I can wait for the right moment. I have all the time in the world.

_**To be Continued… **_

_**

* * *

  
**_

And there you have it…the chapter's complete! From here on, we're exploring the events of Sly 2 from Clockwerk's perspective…and discovering just what Arpeggio might have been up to all that time! Given that Arpeggio was a tinkering genius and a proverbial ham, it doesn't seem far-fetched to me that he might practice re-building the Clockwerk Frame beforehand…or that he'd keep the Clockwerk Brain around as some kind of lucky charm.

That wasn't the only potential plot hole I explored, either—for example, how did Neyla get that key to Dimitri's disco club in the game? In this fic, I answered that—she passed herself off as a corrupt cop and told him she'd cover for him with Interpol. After all, Dimitri made mention to noticing her in the game (in the Paris level, once you've bugged his office, one of the iguana's comments is "Who's that foxy tiger-lady who's been sneaking around my woods?" Or something like that, anyway. I think he was referring to Neyla.

Anyhow, there you have it! Sorry for the wait, guys!

Arpeggio is not here, presently. Along with his protégé, my unwitting host has traveled to India as per the invitation sent by his colleague, Rajan. The would-be spice sultan. Another member of the Klaww Gang. And owner of both my wings and heart.


	6. Chapter 6: In Search of Life Eternal

**Author's Note: the Sly Cooper series, the events concerned, and the characters are all copyright of Sony Computer Entertainment America Inc., Sucker Punch Productions and Sanzaru Games 2007-2012, etc. This is a non-profit work of fanfiction.**

Hello, again! It's been a couple years since I updated this fic, I know. For those of you who've followed my work in the past, I sincerely apologize. Real life got in the way. Stuff like college, getting a new job, partaking of Diablo 3…you know. All that fun stuff. But I never truly forgot this story; nor my promise to finish it. And thus do I present another chapter in the most sinister tale never told of Sly 2: Band of Thieves…the Cold-Hearted Interlude.

In this chapter, we get insight into what Clockwerk might have thought of someone else trying to claim his immortality, and even a few subtle hints to the respective ambitions of Rajan and Neyla. And thus do I turn you loose to the story, dear reader. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Six: In Search of Life Eternal**

I presently find myself alone in this airborne workshop, with only the quiet hum of the engines for company. Without the other noises to drown them out—the beeping and whirring of the computers, the prattle of Arpeggio's assistants, the bombastic mannerisms of the tinkerer himself—there is only that persistent thrumming, a rich bass note. With the lights turned off, what little illumination remains is brought from the shafts of moonlight which stream through the bridge's viewport, casting the workshop in pale silver. And by that dim radiance, I am aware of my surroundings: The half-completed replica of my old body, hanging above from a series of steel cables like a marionette. The workshop table on which my brain case rests, amidst a series of strewn tools and schematics. A global map lies spread out across the wooden surface, with a small model of Arpeggio's flying hideout resting atop the picture of India to show our current location. Really, it's akin to sitting amidst the scattered toys of a youth, so caught up in his puerile meanderings that he didn't bother to tidy up before going to bed.

But no matter. I finally have some time to myself, free to ponder without interruption…to muse on what I've learned about my unwitting host's master plan.

As of late, Arpeggio has become engrossed in designing a working replica of my old body. He has tackled the project with an artist's passion, eating little and sleeping even less. The daily duties of overseeing the Klaww Gang's spice ring have been delegated to his aides wherever possible—indeed, if he didn't require the rest of the Klaww Gang for his plans, I suspect he would ignore them entirely. The task of rebuilding my frame and claiming it for his own has seized Arpeggio with a religious fervor…my metallic components are as holy relics to him; my blueprints, his sacred texts.

And I? I suppose I am his savior, if not outright _deity_…I embody all that the tinkering parrot aspires to become, the ideal of what his own genius could achieve if his plan succeeds. And like any devout worshipper, Arpeggio has allowed this project to dominate his waking moments; up until a week ago, I would have thought nothing short of an Interpol raid would grab Arpeggio's attention enough to make him set his work aside.

And yet, something _did_—the letter that lies before my brain-case, half-covered by some of the instruments that Arpeggio was using to work on the replica of my body. The flowing script on the paper comes from the pen of Rajan, the spice lord of the Klaww Gang—he's beckoned Arpeggio to join him for a party at his jungle palace, suggesting that this would be a good time for the rest of the Klaww Gang to convene and determine how Dimitri's arrest will complicate their plans. By all accounts, the letter is thus an invitation. But the subtle references to Rajan's spice trade as the backbone of the operation, the thinly-veiled suggestion that the Klaww Gang could use a new direction…these things betray Rajan's true motives. He means to cast doubt on Arpeggio's unspoken leadership of the Klaww Gang, perhaps even usurp it outright. It's no surprise; having clawed his way from the very bottom of the criminal underworld in India, Rajan undoubtedly harbors reservations about being subservient in _any_ capacity.

For his part, Arpeggio accepted the invitation with cavalier nonchalance, as if Rajan wasn't actively questioning his leadership. But I suppose he wouldn't really _care_, would he? It's all a ruse, this partnership with the rest of the Klaww Gang—in the end, the scheming tinkerer means to betray them all, posing as their friend and offering his counsel…and all the while, supplying his protégé, Neyla, with the evidence needed to bring the police down upon them. Between her Interpol connections and the efforts of Sly Cooper, it will only be a matter of time before the rest of the Klaww Gang collapses, cast aside as their usefulness to Arpeggio's scheme runs its course. And Rajan, I suspect, is next in line.

In a bid to hide his humble beginnings as a street urchin running packets of addictive spice on the streets of Calcutta, the spice lord has shoved all traces of his origin behind a curtain of wealth and glamour. Perhaps this thirst for fame is what drove his claim to my wings and heart when the Klaww Gang divided my former body's components…they were, after all, the most symbolic. And Rajan has exploited that in full; his first request was that Arpeggio give him instructions for welding my "Clockwerk Wings" to an opulent statue in his palace's throne room. According to his letter to Arpeggio, he intends to show them off during his party; just as tribal chiefs commanded great respect from their subjects by wearing the pelts of fierce predators, Rajan believes that displaying my wings will invoke awe and reverence in the hearts of his guests.

It must have irked Arpeggio to see my wings treated as a mere _object de arte_—he, who cannot fly, would much sooner see such marvels of aviation put to their _proper_ use. But for the sake of his greater plan, the parrot buried his ire and obliged his colleague's request. In fact, he even went so far as to grant a _second_ such favor, regarding the application of my mechanical heart. Here, Rajan's intentions were much more _practical_—since my "heart" was both a hydraulic pump and a high-voltage power generator, he asked Arpeggio to divide it into two halves. One half—the one that contained the mechanisms for circulating machine oil and other fluids—was then integrated into the irrigation center of his spice facility, where its tireless functions would bolster the cultivation of his illicit product. As for the other half—the electrical generator—Rajan means to carry it with him at all times; it has been jury-rigged into an offensive weapon and attached to his staff. After all, any criminal can carry a gun…but for Rajan, who fancies himself a lord, what better weapon than the proverbial thunderbolt of the gods?

Hmph. Rajan has both ambition and cunning, I'll grant him that…but if Arpeggio has his way, it won't last. Sly Cooper will serve as the tinkerer's unwitting puppet, stealing those coveted parts from under Rajan's nose…and if the whelp's methods follow a similar pattern to the heist he pulled in Paris, then his actions will indirectly lead to Rajan's arrest. Two birds slain with one stone—more of my components will be free for the taking, and the spice lord will no longer be an obstacle to Arpeggio's ambitions. True, it will mean leaving my parts in the hands of the Cooper whelp, but the tinkerer's _counting_ on that. All of my components gathered in one place, so that when Arpeggio sets the foolish raccoon up for a fall—courtesy of his treacherous protégé, Neyla—he can gather them all in one fell swoop.

This is the cornerstone of Arpeggio's scheme: to manipulate ally and foe alike as pawns on a chessboard, concealing his own involvement until the very end. With every subtle act of influence and suggestion, the parrot inches ever closer to realizing his true goal…and I, closer to finding a way to make it all work in _m_y favor.

Or rather, I've already _found_ a way.

The revelation came to me while I watched Arpeggio tinkering away on the replica of my old body. Like any proper inventor or scientist, the diminutive mechanist has been recording his observations and efforts—both on paper, and via a stylized phonograph. And given his penchant for speeches, he's divulged a great deal while working on his prototype—or, as he's come to dub it, the Proto-Werk Frame. Though I can't activate the phonograph to play back Arpeggio's notes, I remember what I heard well enough…

**_…_**

**_…_**

**_…_**

"_Arpeggio's log, September 4__th__, 2004. Construction of the Proto-Werk Frame continues smoothly, if rather slowly. Granted, I have Clockwerk's schematics to work from, but one must keep in mind that I'm building the old bird's body completely from scratch…and it __**is**__ a rather intricate model."_ A pause. _"I must say, Clockwerk must have had __**quite**__ a flair for design—the body shown in these blueprints is no mere mechanical construct; many of his internal components—the heart, for example—emulate the organs of an __**organic**__ body! The old boy was __**centuries**__ ahead of his time…such a pity that most people saw only the criminal mastermind, and __**nothing**__ of the genius!"_

I recall the reverence in Arpeggio's voice—the sigh of admiration.

"_But even this life-like mechanical shell was child's play, compared to his __**truly**__ singular achievement…__**immortality**__."_ Here, the parrot laughed._ "Just think…even the greatest kings and most brilliant philosophers were unable to conquer time, that last and most implacable of foes…and yet, Clockwerk succeeded where they did not! Eternal life—the ability to preserve one's existence heedless of the passage of years—__**that**__, truly, is the old bird's 9__th__ Symphony! Even the most ambitious of his crimes was __**nothing**__ compared to it! Oh, to have that same gift… to be possessed of life eternal, free from the touch of the Reaper's scythe! Verily, 'tis a prize above all others…and I shall have it for my own!_

The irritated gaze that Arpeggio directed to my brain-case springs to mind, the sigh of frustration as he stroked his beak and preened absently at his moustache.

"_Of course, I've yet to determine just __**how**__ the old bird managed it. Modern medicine and cybernetic augmentation are only __**part**__ of the puzzle, after all…one must remember that Clockwerk was alive since the days of the pharaohs, what? And so the question remains: how __**did**__ the old bird stay alive for all those centuries? Sorcery? Ancient medicinal techniques? Did he, perhaps, dabble in alchemy and create—or, perhaps more likely, __**steal**__—the Philosopher's Stone? Did he succeed where I did not?" _

Then the cultured tinkerer shook his head._ "Ah well, no matter. The answers lie before me_." He paused again, reaching out with a diminutive green wing to sift through the plans that lay scattered on the work-table. _"While Clockwerk's brain may be naught but an empty shell, his secrets did not die with him—I'm certain his blueprints hold clues I've yet to uncover!"_ Lifting one of the dark blue schematics to the lamp, he stroked his slender moustache and chuckled softly. _"In time, I shall completely decipher the old boy's legacy…and then, immortality shall be __**mine! **__Nothing shall stand in my way!"_

_**…**_

_**…**_

_**…**_

That was when I understood the full extent of Arpeggio's scheme. It isn't just about hypnotizing Paris, augmenting his feeble body with my metallic chassis, or even something as fundamental as _flight_. No…those things are merely part of a far _grander_ design. Not satisfied with the might and weaponry of my former body, the diminutive tinkerer pursues my greatest secret…the ability to cheat death in all its guises. However unintentional, he seeks to _emulate_ me, in both body and spirit. To become as I have…a relentless and unstoppable force, untouched by the rigors of time and injury. And thus reborn, he means to leave his mark on the pages of history, scribing his name in deeds that will make the world tremble.

Hmph.

I must admit…I find myself…_impressed_.

When the rest of Klaww Gang divided my parts, they descended upon my chassis like vultures upon carrion and picked it clean, leaving only a hollow shell in their wake. To _them_, my mechanical frame was a sunken ship to be plundered of anything valuable, and then abandoned to the dusts of time. All _they_ saw was one-of-a-kind mechanical handiwork; a collection of interesting machines to be salvaged and re-purposed for their own personal schemes. Never once did they stop to consider that my battered frame had once housed a mind of unparalleled intellect. That it had served as a vessel for one who had defied the fates and nature alike. That it could prove instrumental in learning my darkest secrets. Bah! Not _one_ of those fools understood the full potential of what they'd stolen!

But Arpeggio? _He_ understood.

When the rest of the Klaww Gang scavenged my old body, the aristocratic parrot kept delving after his peers had taken the choicest components. Where _they_ saw nothing else of value, _he_ saw the hints of something _more_, a greater prize that remained untouched. Even as his colleagues began to profit from their respective endeavors, the tinkerer pored over my schematics, piecing together the hidden clues that the others had overlooked. And thus, he discovered what _they_ did not…that my true strength lies not in steel and circuitry, but in the fact that I can _never die_. That my boundless intellect and razor cunning would never be dulled by the sands of time; that I could survive wounds that would have been fatal for anyone else. That I have attained the elusive dream that has tempted countless others…_immortality._ Life eternal. Defiance of the reaper's scythe, in all its forms.

_That_ is the prize Arpeggio seeks—has, sought, perhaps, from the moment he orchestrated my theft. The rest of the Klaww Gang may be satisfied with using my parts for their own trivial pursuits. But not Arpeggio. Having realized my _true_ power, to use my versatile technology for lesser things would _never_ satisfy him. Instead, the tinkering parrot pursues the secret that his peers so foolishly overlooked…and he will stop at nothing to achieve it. Inevitably, he will likely come closer to discovering my secrets than anyone else has in centuries.

Just as he will inevitably _fail_.

Brilliant, arrogant, foolish Arpeggio…does he _really_ think I would commit all of my secrets to paper? That I would risk someone else learning how to imitate my grand designs? Fool. He can pore over my blueprints till his eyes are shot through with red…till lack of sleep all but drives him mad…it will all be in vain. When I drew up those schematics, I left out certain details—the secret of my immortality, the means to spread that power through a body of steel and wires, and even the more advanced aspects of the technology that comprised my former chassis. After all, if my blueprints ever fell into the hands of the Cooper line, they would be armed with the knowledge of how to destroy me…and perhaps, if they were prepared to make the necessary sacrifices, how to make _my_ immortality their _own_. And _that_, simply, would not do. My secrets are _mine_, and mine alone.

When treasure is buried without the intent to share, it is a fool who leaves a map.

Not that Arpeggio will notice the omission, at least not right away. I took care to obscure the instructions with such technical terms and complex mathematic formulas that they're practically a form of code unto themselves—only the most brilliant and patient of scholars would be able to make any sense of it all. In fact, I even made some of those instructions _deliberately_ misleading, in case some enterprising meddler thought to take my technology and use it without my permission. If Arpeggio follows my blueprints to the letter, he'll find the Proto-Werk Frame to be a clumsy hunk of metal, the wings unable to support its massive weight without mounted thrusters.

Of course, tinkering aficionado that he is, Arpeggio will likely find workarounds, perhaps even recognize the misleading details and determine what he should _really_ be doing. But even if he does, the secret of my immortality will still elude him. That particular secret remains with me—with my photographic memory, I recall it in perfect detail. Though he may succeed in re-assembling my old body, Arpeggio will never find the prize he covets most…

…at least, not without a little _help._

_**…**_

_**…**_

_**…**_

Hours have passed. Arpeggio has returned. Once again, the workshop hums with life, the tinkering parrot hunched over the workbench on a steel perch as he solders the latest piece of the Proto-Werk Frame together. Behind the spray of sparks and the flame of an old-fashioned welding torch, Arpeggio's toucan flunkies hurry about on various errands—one of them pushes a cart of metal; another stands at a nearby table sorting gears and bundles of wire; and another stands at a telegraph and reviews a spool of message tape before leaning forward to rap the receiver key with his pronounced beak in a measured tempo. Through it all, Arpeggio remains focused on his work, ignoring everything around him as he crafts his latest tribute to my old body. Already, the sleek rod on the table has been equipped with tensile cables and wiring, and attached to a flexible, multi-jointed base. All the remains is to weld those curved, wickedly sharp talons into place, and the facsimile of my leg will be complete…

At that moment, a rich, throaty voice rises over the crackle of the welding torch. "Working hard as usual, I see?"

This comes from the tigress who sauntered into the room a few moments ago—Arpeggio's secret apprentice, the manipulative Neyla. Odd…she seems to be dressed as though she just came from a high-class ball. A skirt of elegant silk embraces her hips and thighs while an Indian wrapping clings to her bosom, leaving her midriff bare and offering a view of her shapely legs. The golden hue of Neyla's dress is accentuated by a subtle shimmer in the silk; all the better, I suppose, to show off her dusky violet pelt. Without her usual scarlet hood, a mane of midnight-black hair tumbles to the base of her neck, framing her face in a raven's shadow. In summary, a far cry from her usual appearance…and the witless toucans around Arpeggio take full notice, glancing up from their tasks to stare at her. _Hmph._ They could at least _pretend_ to act as if they weren't interested.

From the faint smirk that crosses her dark purple lips, I suspect Neyla is well aware of their gaze…indeed, I suspect that she prides herself on her ability to capture the interest of others; all the easier to manipulate them. Her attention, however, is reserved for her master, as she walks up to the work-table with her tail flicking in a lazy pattern.

Without looking away, Arpeggio lets out a hearty chuckle behind the welder's mask. "Naturally, my protégé. I do want to be as well-versed as possible in the intricacies of the Clockwerk Frame when the time comes to re-assemble the real thing, don't I?" A pause as the welder's frame dies away, and Arpeggio flips up the mask to examine his handiwork before glancing over to Neyla, smirking as if aware of some private jest. "By the by, shouldn't you be out in the jungle, pursuing the crooked lord of a recently-purchased jungle palace?"

Neyla shrugs. "As far as Interpol knows, I am," she says dismissively. "Old Ironsides is too incensed from her little tango to wonder where I went when I suggested we split up." She lets out a derisive laugh. "Hah! I'd wager she thinks she'll actually catch up with the criminal she's _really_ after; never mind that he and his little gang are probably _miles_ away by now. Them and that absurd van of theirs."

Arpeggio chortles merrily, now wagging one of his diminutive green wings in admonishment. "Now, now, Neyla…we owe quite a bit to Sly Cooper! Why, if not for his rather convenient grudge against Clockwerk, we'd have a devil of a time getting the rest of the old bird's parts without arousing my associates' suspicion!" Flipping his welder's mask back over his aristocratic features, Arpeggio goes back to work, speaking over the roar of the welding flame and the crackle of sparks. "Just think, a master thief's doing all the hard work for us, and we barely have to lift a feather! It's only a matter of time before he manages to get all the parts back, and then we can swoop in and take them all!" A pause; an amused chuckle. "Ironic, isn't it? Cooper is my most instrumental pawn in this whole affair, and he doesn't even _realize_ it!"

Neyla braces one paw on the table and leans forward…and look at that. She seems to be _frowning_. "About this plan, sir…I really think you should let me go after those parts _myself_. I could retrieve them a lot easier if I wasn't playing tour guide for Sly and his pathetic little _friends_."

From behind that welding mask, there comes a weary sigh. "We _have_ been over this, my dear."

Neyla tightens her grasp on the edge of the table, claws springing from her dark purple fingertips to dig into the sturdy wood. "I'm _telling_ you, I can do a better job than Sly bloody Cooper!" she protests, gesturing to herself with her other paw. "You've seen me in action, remember? That ring-tailed rat had to run himself _ragged_ just to keep up with me back in Paris! And that nerdy little tortoise who acts as his brain, not to mention that obese pink clod they call a strongman…!" The tigress shakes her head, disdainful. "Really, they're just _deadweight_ to me. Let me turn them over to Interpol, and _I'll_ be able to get those Clockwerk Parts more easily than _they_ ever could."

Arpeggio doesn't even look at her. "And I keep telling _you_, my cheeky protégé, Sly Cooper is the ideal proxy!' he admonishes. "He's talented enough to steal the Clockwerk Parts from the other members of Klaww Gang; he's such a high-profile criminal that Interpol will be too busy chasing _him_ to worry about _us_, and as an unwitting pawn, he's completely expendable! To top it all off, his unfashionable vendetta against Clockwerk means that no one will think twice about his involvement, or ask why he's stealing the old bird's remains! He's the perfect dupe!"

Neyla looks ready to contest that claim. "But…"

Arpeggio cuts her off with a jet of white-blue flame from the welding torch, sealing shut seams in the device on the table before him. "Sly Cooper is much too useful to throw away just yet, and that's _final._ Stick to your part of the plan, my dear…help him along."

_Hmph._ From the way her ears fold back, Neyla doesn't like taking second billing to Cooper whelp any more than _I _do. But she knows better than to keep arguing…I can see the crafty gleam in those emerald eyes, the way she strokes her slender chin in thought. There…her eyes just brightened, the telltale sign of inspiration taking hold. And now she's leaning over the workbench again, drawing a little closer to Arpeggio as she lowers her muzzle to his ear, murmuring just loud enough for him to hear.

"That's just it, sir…what if Sly decides to destroy the Clockwerk Parts before we can get our hands on them?"

There. _That_ got Arpeggio's attention. The welding torch abruptly shuts off as the diminutive tinkerer straightens bolt upright, flipping his mask up to give Neyla a sharp glance from his perch. "Don't even joke about that."

Neyla's shaking her head, her bare shoulders rising in a casual shrug. "Oh, it's no joke," she replies nonchalantly. "You said it yourself, didn't you? Sly Cooper has quite the grudge against Clockwerk. If I were him, I'd be destroying every piece of the old bird as soon as I got my paws on it." Now she leans forward, running a slender clawtip along the trim of Arpeggio's scarlet cape. "Why, he might have already disposed of the wings. Didn't you call them an irreplaceable feat of aviation…?"

The tigress chose her words well. Dismantled though I am, I can see the alarm in Arpeggio's eyes as they widen with shock. He glances aside, his expression pensive as he strokes his beak fretfully. Wondering, no doubt, if he's already lost his chance to study my wings after coveting them for so long. Already, I can see Neyla's implication taking root…the furrowing of Arpeggio's brow, the way his beak comes together in a grim line. Setting the welding torch down on the work table, the tinkering parrot steeples his wingtips together; obviously contemplating his choices.

Though really, he's already _made_ the choice. He's just letting his keen intellect justify it.

And now he turns to Neyla, his expression solemn. "It's a shame to lose Sly Cooper's unwitting aid so early, but I see your point…his enmity with Clockwerk may indeed prove more obstacle than asset." With a rueful sigh, the diminutive parrot shakes his head and shrugs. "Ah well, no matter. You'll just have to deal with him earlier than expected…I trust you can devise a scenario to lure the lad to his doom?"

Neyla all but purrs with satisfaction. "Oh, I already have," she remarks. "In fact, I think we can kill two birds with one stone, if you'll pardon the expression. Didn't you tell me that some of your chums in the Klaww Gang were concerned about Old Ironsides sticking her nose into our affairs?"

Arpeggio arches a quizzical brow. "Inspector Fox, you mean? Yes, the Contessa's worried that she'll discover her involvement with the Klaww Gang if she stays on the case—something about the vixen's obsession with uncovering all aspects of any case regarding Sly Cooper." He pauses, preening at his slender moustache. "It's a bit bothersome, really…I need the Contessa in Interpol's good graces, at least until she completes her work on the hypnotic array. But she's so busy trying to keep Inspector Fox off her scent, she's falling behind schedule!" Then Arpeggio throws up his wings in exasperation. "And she won't stop pestering _me_ about it, so it's interfering with _my_ work, as well! Bah! I really have no time for it!"

Neyla smirks, dipping a paw into the neckline of her wrappings. "Then I'm sure you'll _both_ appreciate this…tell me, what's the first thing that comes to mind when you see this picture?"

Arpeggio leans forward with an arched brow, adjusting his monocle as he examines the photograph that Neyla just produced from her dress. But…_rrrrggh! _I can't see it from this angle! Curse this decrepit, disembodied state I'm trapped in! But wait…the tinkering parrot's smiling now…_chortling_, even.

"My, my…Rajan _did_ throw quite the soiree, didn't he?"

Neyla nods, her emerald eyes glittering fiendishly. "Oh, yes…and it'll be the last one that Sly Cooper and his precious _Ironsides_ will ever attend!"

They laugh together, the tinkering genius and his cunning apprentice. The latter tosses the photo aside, sending it sliding across the workbench. Hmm…it's come to rest right where I'm sitting, the supposedly inert brain case that serves as Arpeggio's lucky charm. I can't move directly, of course…but Arpeggio and Neyla are distracted. Perhaps I can get away with tweaking the magnification on my camera sensor? Now, let's zoom in and see what all the fuss is about…

_Well._ Look at _that._ Two birds with one stone, indeed.

And so the tangled plot thickens, with Arpeggio's plans unfolding perfectly. But he's not the only player in this little game…Neyla is quite adept at manipulating his secret fears and ambitions for her own agenda. Depending on the scope of her own ambition, she could be the wild card that changes everything.

And Sly Cooper? He's nothing but a _pawn_ to them both. And soon, he and that meddling vixen will be swept from the board.

_**To Be Continued…**_

* * *

So there you have it. The chapter is complete. And now that you've read through it, permit the author some commentary.

Firstly, when considering how I would make Clockwerk a more active presence in this fic than just a passive observer of the game's events, I considered what he would do. As I've shown here, I doubt a villain as cunning as Clockwerk would leave the secret to his immortality in a place where just ANYONE could read it. So how did Arpeggio learn the secret?

Secondly, I wanted to offer a little more insight into Clockwerk's sinister mind. Even though he mocks Arpeggio for thinking the secret to immortality being as easy as reading his blueprints, I like to think that the villainous owl has developed a certain respect for the tinkering parrot's ambition, and for understanding what REALLY makes him a force to be reckoned with. Of course, he still views himself as the superior mind between the two, and is hatching his plans accordingly.

Thirdly, I thought I'd show Neyla's ever-duplicitous and ambitious nature a little. As we find out in the final stage of Sly 2, she chafed at the idea of leading Sly and his gang on their hunt for the Clockwerk parts, having preferred to go after them herself. Thus did I show her using her clever wiles to convince Arpeggio to let her betray Sly earlier than planned. She's quite the manipulator, no?

Once again, I apologize for the unseemly delay, and I hope the quality of my writing makes up for that. As always, comments and criticism are deeply appreciated. Laters!


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